Epistemological Relativism

In my struggle to meet the demands of my now long forgotten, but now remembered, resolutions of the New Year I read Adam’s Curse by W.B. Yeats last night. Some of the stanza’s I have faint memories of. If I can dare to do so I’d say that this poem summarizes nicely what I tell my children; doing things that are worthwhile take serious time and effort. Yeats, I think, agrees. Poetry, beauty and love all take work. I should correct myself here. If you are successful, the recipient of your effort should scarcely notice the labor. This is one of the signs of its quality according to Yeats; the quality of seeming like “a moment’s thought”.

Sadly, and I get this sense near the end, we’ve lost the motivation to pursue this sort of quality. Or we invent new ways that short-circuit some of that time and effort. Maybe when we do this, we lose some of the personal benefits of this exertion?

We sat together at one summer’s end,
That beautiful mild woman, your close friend,
And you and I, and talked of poetry.
I said, “A line will take us hours maybe;
Yet if it does not seem a moment’s thought,
Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.
Better go down upon your marrow-bones
And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones
Like an old pauper, in all kinds of weather;
For to articulate sweet sounds together
Is to work harder than all these, and yet
Be thought an idler by the noisy set
Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen
The martyrs call the world.”

And thereupon
That beautiful mild woman for whose sake
There’s many a one shall find out all heartache
On finding that her voice is sweet and low
Replied, “To be born woman is to know –
Although they do not talk of it at school –
That we must labour to be beautiful.”
I said, “It’s certain there is no fine thing
Since Adam’s fall but needs much labouring.
There have been lovers who thought love should be
So much compounded of high courtesy
That they would sigh and quote with learned looks
precedents out of beautiful old books;
Yet now it seems an idle trade enough.”

We sat grown quiet at the name of love;
We saw the last embers of daylight die,
And in the trembling blue-green of the sky
A moon, worn as if it had been a shell
Washed by time’s waters as they rose and fell
About the stars and broke in days and years.
I had a thought for no one’s but your ears:
That you were beautiful, and that I strove
To love you in the old high way of love;
That it had all seemed happy, and yet we’d grown
As weary-hearted as that hollow moon.

Thoughts Poetry, W.B. Yeats

After reading several Longfellow poems with topics ranging from children, life, death and faith I’m beginning to have a certain affinity for the fellow (pun intended). I don’t mind at all if his poems were written for the masses as some have claimed. When I read a poem, I am the only one responding to his words at that moment in time. There is nobody else the poet is speaking to other than me. Can it really be any other way?

My favorite stanza has got to be sixth. I try to focus on what I can do in the present. Alas, my focus seldom turns into action. So many times we linger in the past or wander into the future that we forget about our responsibilities to act in the present moment. Longfellow clearly understand this challenge and our natural inclination to do nothing. After reading this poem I feel compelled or inspired to continue acting in the present, to make the most of the time that we have here and to get to a place where I can, just maybe, leave “footprints on the sands of time” for someone to benefit from.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,–act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o’erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;–

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

– Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, A Psalm of Life

General, Thoughts Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Poetry

We have a fairly involved night-time ritual. First we read selections from Bennett’s Book of Virtues, then a Bible story or two from Egermeier’s Bible Story Book, then several pages from our current book (at this time it is MacDonald’s The Golden Key) and finally our Compline Office from Tickle’s The Divine Hours. Bennett’s compilation has all sorts of interesting stories and poems. The selection below is one my children enjoyed. Their enjoyment of this poem comes primarily from their ability to act it out when we put them to sleep!

BETWEEN the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day’s occupations,
That is known as the Children’s Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence:
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret
O’er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all!

I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away!

– Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,  The Children’s Hour

Books Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Poetry

Here is Monday’s poem.

I know a little garden-close,
Set thick with lily and red rose,
Where I would wander if I might
From dewy morn to dewy night,
And have one with me wandering.

And though within it no birds sing,
And though no pillared house is there,
And though the apple-boughs are bare
Of fruit and blossom, would to God
Her feet upon the green grass trod,
And I beheld them as before.

There comes a murmur from the shore,
And in the close two fair-streams are,
Drawn from the purple hills afar,
Drawn down unto the restless sea:
Dark hills whose heath-bloom feeds no bee,
Dark shore no ship has ever seen,
Tormented by the billows green
Whose murmur comes unceasingly
Unto the place for which I cry.

For which I cry both day and night,
For which I let slip all delight,
Whereby I grow both deaf and blind,
Careless to win, unskilled to find,
And quick to lose what all men seek.

Yet tottering as I am and weak,
Still have I left a little breath
To seek within the jaws of death
An entrance to that happy place,
To seek the unforgotten face,
Once seen, once kissed, once reft from me
Anigh the murmuring of the sea.

– William Morris, A Garden by the Sea

Is this another poem about death? Is the garden by the sea a grave site or the sacred spot shared by two lovers? I’ve gone through this poem only a dozen times, but there is certainly a musical, almost mysterious rhythm to it. I use the word mysterious because I can think of no better word to describe how it reads.

Books Poetry, William Morris

Here is a poem that I’ve been contemplating for the past several days.

The tide rises, the tide falls,
The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;
Along the sea-sands damp and brown
The traveller hastens toward the town,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.

Darkness settles on roofs and walls,
But the sea, the sea in the darkness calls;
The little waves, with their soft, white hands,
Efface the footprints in the sands,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.

The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls
Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls;
The day returns, but nevermore
Returns the traveller to the shore,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.

- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, The Tide Rises, The Tide Falls

After several readings I’m beginning to think this poem has something to say about Death. I have a few reasons for this conclusion. The coming morning, instead of arousing traditional feelings of life, hope and renewal, bring into focus the termination of a journey. The traveler will never return to the shore. I think this reversal, using the morning to speak of some loss instead of renewal, is very powerful. The tide and its cyclical and almost timeless nature contrasts well with the fate of the traveler. The tide continues in perpetuity, but the traveler cannot. The traveler is finite and limited. The footprints emphasize this fact. The memory, life and activities of the traveler fade quickly away, but the tide repeats its playful and deliberate act.

I’m not sure if my conclusion is accurate, but it does seem reasonable. Of course, more examination is necessary. Why, for example, do the waves have soft, white hands? Where are there steeds and a hostler? I imagine that as these questions are answered my conclusion may seem more or less accurate. What do you think? Am I “right”? Better still, what does it mean to be right?

–UPDATE: I found an audio link to The Tide Rises, The Tide Falls on archive.org. Enjoy!

Books, General, Thoughts Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Poetry